Whine and Dine
by Twinings
Summary: A romantic comedy like no other.  [CAT]
1. The Opening

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Joker. Ha! Haven't said that one in a while!_

_This is a CATverse fic (www. freewebs. com/ catverse) following right on the heels of CATfight. For anyone anxious for a Squishykins update, well, it's not coming in this fic. And for all you shippers out there (you know who you are)...just relax and enjoy the ride. To quote my favorite evil robot, "Tragic romances always have a happy ending."_

* * *

When Techie joined the Joker's gang, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They all knew that without Harley's relatively steady hand, everything would fall apart within a week.

Imagine their surprise when Techie turned out not to be a Harlequin.

She wasn't a bad substitute. She could manage the boss's moods just well enough to keep him from killing any of the hired help, _without_ turning his wrath on herself. She was such a clean freak, the hideout stayed, if not sparkling, at least fairly tidy, and she always knew where to find the Joker's socks. She was a better cook than Harley, a better sneak thief, and she knew how to set the clock on a VCR.

But she had her shortcomings. Her fighting skills and athletic abilities suffered in comparison to those of a trained gymnast like Harley. Some of the more shortsighted of the boys resented the way she tried to bully them into cleaning up after themselves, and in general the authority she assumed without having proven to _them_ that she was worthy. The one time she had been employed as a getaway driver, the pressure of the Joker screaming in her ear had made her panic just a bit, and she had rear-ended the Batmobile (and how she managed that when the Batmobile was _behind_ them, no one was ever quite sure.) Once she forgot to laugh at a joke that wasn't very funny, and when that earned her a fat lip, she dared to swing back. Only the fact that she missed his face and hit a Batman plushie hanging from the ceiling fan, knocking it into a button whose only purpose was to make an off-tone "boing" sound when a henchman's joke fell flat, saved her from an untimely death.

But above all, Techie's greatest crime was that she was not in love with the Joker. She admired him, obviously. She respected him. She found him generally amusing and madly clever, and she wasn't shy about the fact that she was drawn to power, which he had in spades.

But she didn't _need_ him. She made it perfectly clear that she could live without his attention, and was even happy to do so. She _refused_ to throw herself at him.

This was unacceptable.

She was an attractive woman, intelligent enough to perceive his numerous charms. There were no pesky opposing morals standing between them, requiring him to work on her the way he had on Harley. There was no reason for her to fear jealous reprisals from the jailbird. So what was the problem? No woman had ever worked for him this long without throwing herself at his feet, or whatever body part was handy (fear and laughter, power and money being such powerful motivators, both separately and in any number of combinations.)

It couldn't be that she wasn't interested. He had read that diary of hers. He knew exactly what she thought of him.

So what could the problem be?

As always when confronted with a problem he couldn't solve, the Joker went to his favorite video store for help.

He was in luck. His favorite clerk was working that day. Not surprising, really, since any time the Joker found any other employees (or customers) in the store, he made at least a token effort to rearrange their faces. This particular salesboy got to live because he looked so much like a young Gene Wilder, and to a lesser extent because he had made himself extraordinarily useful in the past.

"Good m-morning, Mr. Joker," the kid stammered in that gently terrified way that kept him alive. Today was a Leo Bloom day. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Just browsing, my boy," he replied genially. A Wonka could be taken into his confidence, and a Fronk-en-steen could be threatened somewhat, but a Leo Bloom had to be treated with kid gloves if he didn't want to provoke some very counterproductive hysterics.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he leaned over the counter, his manner going from friendly to panic-inducing in the blink of an eye.

"Got any mail for me, sonny?"

Disappointingly, the young man smiled with relief, changing his appearance to something not very Wilderesque at all.

"Yes, sir! Actually, it just came in yesterday." He reached under the counter and took out a small package postmarked from France.

The Joker managed his disappointment well enough, tearing off the paper to expose the DVD he had been after for years. Included was a note asking him to please not make any illegal copies of the film, and not to harm the brave young man who had requested it on his behalf.

"What! What does he thing I am? What did you say to him?" He crushed the note in one gloved fist. The clerk backed up, but the Joker was too preoccupied with his rant to take the time to do away with his only audience. "Illegal copies! I never." He looked down, distracted by the rainbow light flashing across its surface. Then he burst into maniacal laughter. The salesboy, conditioned to see laughter as a sign that he would be left in one piece, relaxed.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Joker?"

"Sonny boy, when a man can go home and watch _The Day the Clown Cried_, there's really nothing more he could need." He turned to go, feeling so good about life in general, he almost wanted to bring the kid some kind of reward whenever he came back.

Unfortunately, the clerk who looked like Gene Wilder had more courage than brains.

"It's just that, if you wanted to rent something, you might not get another chance."

The Joker stopped in the doorway and turned to face his helpful sales clerk.

"Why?"

Here the boy realized his mistake, but it was far too late to turn back.

"We're…we're going out of business." Tactfully, he didn't mention _why_ the store, which had once drawn in such a respectable number of customers, should now be on the brink of financial collapse.

The Joker, with some effort, contorted his grin into a sympathetic frown.

"That's a shame, my boy. A real crying shame." He pulled out a gun.

The boy backed away, eyes round as saucers.

"Oh…I…do you think that's really n-necessary?"

"Oh, yes. I'm afraid it is," the Joker said mournfully. "Without this place, what do I have to live for?" And he turned the gun on himself.

An expression of intense relief flashed across the boy's face, followed quickly by shock and something annoyingly compassionate.

"Oh, sir…You don't have to…There are other places…"

"So true," said the Joker. "But there's only one of _you_." He pressed the cool metal to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

There was no bang, only a faint pop as a tiny dart shot out of its chamber in what appeared to be the butt of the pistol to bury itself in the clerk's throat. He dropped without a sound.

The Joker smiled.

"Gotcha." He looked with approval at the grin stiffening on the sales clerk's face. "I hope you're not too down about being made the butt of a joke. Get it?" He laughed wildly. Of course the boy who had looked like Gene Wilder couldn't laugh back, but the dead smile was enough.

Well, that was an afternoon well spent. The Joker picked up as many movies as he could carry and set off, whistling, down the street.


	2. The Setup

Three days and sixteen romantic comedies later, the Joker had an idea.

Actually, he had several ideas.

More than one of them had to do with Gwyneth Paltrow, naked with William Shakespeare, all golden hair and perky breasts and sleepy smiles. If Harley were there, he would put her into bed without a bruise or a scratch on her, just for the pleasure of waking up to that scene. Then he would throw her down a flight of stairs and see how long her smile would last.

Watching _Singin' in the Rain_, he found himself annoyed by the blonde with the horrible voice. He did like the cute little one with the massive blue eyes, whose laugh was so uninhibited. He would have to work on Techie to make her laugh like that, the way Harley had laughed almost from the beginning.

_America's Sweethearts_ gave him another chance to compare women, one dark and fascinating, the other cute and easily dominated, but with a stubborn streak that made him think of a nightstick to the ribs.

_The Princess Bride_. A woman like Buttercup would be so easy to manipulate once convinced that she'd fallen in love. But it had to get dull, wouldn't it?

_Meet the People. When Harry Met Sally. My Favorite Wife. Sleepless in Seattle. Little Manhattan. Fools Rush In. The Wedding Singer._ _How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days._ _Love Actually_. There sure were a lot of crazy blondes in there. Crazy blondes with wayward lovers. He looked at the back cover of _Legally Blonde_ and decided that he'd had enough of the chick flicks.

It was with some relief that he came to the conclusion that, if he wanted to snare a new girl, he should try to _woo_ her. Presents. Flowers. Fine wine. All that romantic drivel that made Harley jump up and down and squeal.

Satisfied, he threw open the door of the throne room and bellowed, "HARLEY!"

One of the henchmen approached timidly, keeping well out of range of any attack.

"She's in Arkham, boss."

Oh. Right.

"I knew that! You—Giggles—it's time to go shopping."


	3. The Punchline

Techie didn't sleep well at the best of times, and bedding down one floor above the Joker didn't go very far toward putting her more at ease. So when the "Shave and a Haircut" knock threw her door off its hinges, she was already wide awake and fully dressed, with a comic book spread across her lap.

"Morning, Joker," she said with an easygoing smile. "Need anybody's legs broken today?" She knew very well that he didn't. That was no leg-breaking smile on his face, but she hadn't been with him long enough to be sure what kind of smile it really was.

Oh. Wait. She knew this smile after all. And even if she didn't, she knew those roaming eyes.

This was going to end badly.

"Do you have a dress?" he asked.

"Um…no." Maybe bad wasn't a strong enough word.

"No? Everyone should have a little black dress."

"Do you have one?" Even before the words left her mouth, she knew it was a stupid thing to say. He wasn't going to think it was funny. She was going to end up juggling her own liver, lungs, and spleen.

And if she managed that, she would almost certainly find herself back in his good graces.

He took a step toward her.

"I don't know how to juggle!" Techie blurted. The Joker cocked his head to the side.

"O…kay. Well, I can teach you that! Come on. The throwing knives are in the basement." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along behind him, knocking her book to the floor. She followed him down the stairs.

"Wait—knives? I thought maybe I could start off with bal…bowling pins."

He laughed heartily, catching the double entendre she hadn't quite managed to avoid.

"If you can juggle exploding knives, you can juggle…balls."

Oh, great. He'd been watching…

Wait a minute.

"_Exploding_ knives?"

His grip tightened on her wrist, thwarting her attempt to slip away. That was going to leave a nasty bruise.

"Didn't I mention that? My girls don't do anything halfway. It's all or nothing, baby."

"Baby?" she repeated dubiously. He didn't seem to hear.

"You're going to enjoy this, I promise. It'll be gobs of fun!" He opened the door and shoved Techie in ahead of him.

"Joker…" She froze at the sight of the redecorated basement.

There were…candles everywhere. And not just any candles, but novelty clown head candles. The vats of acid were still in their rightful places, but one had been covered with a white tablecloth and set with dinner for two, complete with wine and roses—white roses that had been dipped in what she fervently hoped was red paint. And on one of the tanks, the words "hazardous material" had been covered over, with "fine wine" written in underneath.

"Um…hot date tonight?" she asked nervously. _Please don't let him say anything about boxing the clown…_

"You don't have anything _better_ to do, do you?" he asked threateningly.

"But—why? I mean, I'm flattered, but you don't even know my _name_."

"If you wanted everybody to know your name, you should have worked at Cheers." He pushed her into the nearest chair.

Techie eyed the flowers with growing trepidation. That was definitely not paint. She knew from personal experience just how hard it was to replicate that precise color and texture.

Come to think of it, that wine was a funny color for Merlot…

"Boss? Joker? _Sir_?" He smiled at her expectantly. She found herself at a loss for words. "Uh…wh…what's with the flowers?"

"I know," he said, with the air of a man severely put-upon. "I send the intern out for red roses, and he comes back with these. He says they won't be getting more red until Valentine's Day. Can you believe it?"

"Um…it looks like you found a very creative way to solve the problem. Whose blood is that?"

"Not the florist's, that's for damn sure. Remind me to pick up a new intern. That boy was about as competent as a one-armed pianist." He cackled.

"He's dead?"

"This intern is no more! He is an ex-intern!" He cackled again. Techie chuckled nervously.

"But…I _liked_ him."

"Oh. Well, you'll like him even more after you try the wine. It's got legs!"

_Oh, don't let that be a pun, don't let that be a pun, don't let that be a pun…_

She got out of her chair and backed away from him, toward the vat of "fine wine."

_Don't let it be a pun_…

There were bones floating in there. It wasn't a pun.

"Is—is that a femur?"

The Joker took a look. His grin widened.

"No! Of course not. That's a tibia." He pointed out a different bone. "_That's_ a femur."

Techie started to edge away, circling around toward the door.

"Listen, a joke's a joke, and this is a pretty good one, I have to admit, but I don't really want to _drink_ my friend."

"Well, hardly any of it is blood."

"Not the point!"

"Oh, come on. Sit down. Relax. Dinner's getting cold, and he's not getting any warmer."

Techie snatched up a knife from the table. She might be brave enough to say no to the Joker, but she wasn't going to do it unarmed.

But—damn it, this was no steak knife. She flung it away. It exploded on contact with the wall, releasing a cloud of gas, which dispersed quickly in the air. The Joker's grin twitched into something slightly less demented.

"I was going to tell you—don't touch the silver."

"Oh, smeg it all, there goes the exploding knife!" Techie said airily. "Now how am I going to learn to juggle? I'll just go get another one." She started to sprint for the stairs.

"Hold it right there!" His voice turned cheerful again. "I haven't even given you your present yet." He tossed a jewelry box at her. She made no move to open it. There was no telling what might be hiding in there. Of course, she didn't have to wait long before he told her himself. "It's a 24-carat gold noose."

"Oh! That's…" Actually, it was kind of cool. One of the nicest presents she had ever gotten. Also, completely terrifying. "That's…really something," she said lamely. It was something, all right. Not the kind of necklace you could pick up at Wal-Mart (especially considering that there were no more Wal-Marts left in the state since she and the girls had decided to show their support for local businesses, killing two birds with one stone by buying up all the gunpowder and silly putty they could get their hands on at places they _weren't_ preparing to demolish.) "This wasn't by any chance bought for your _girlfriend_? Maybe for Valentine's Day?"

"Harley?" he said blankly.

"_Yeah_, Harley."

"She's not here."

Oh, there were times when Techie _hated_ crazy-person logic. Maybe she used it herself sometimes, but that didn't mean she had to like it when other people started foaming at the mouth with "intelligence".

"That's not really the point." But he wasn't going to listen to that, was he? "She is coming back, you know. She always comes back. She's devoted. She loves you. And…you know what? I'm not her."

Funny, she was only just realizing that herself. She had always dreamed of being his partner, ever since she was a kid watching him on the news, but she was no Harley Quinn. She might have been willing to worship the ground he walked on, but she just wasn't cut out to be his doormat.

And after getting to know him, even worshipping him from afar didn't seem worth the stress it entailed. She was beginning to look forward to the day when Harley would fling herself into Puddin's arms, and she could slip out the back door unnoticed. She was ready to go home.

"Techie," the Joker said with an odd lopsided smile, "I don't deal well with rejection."

Ah. Yes. She recognized this. Understatement, a worthy weapon for any comedian's arsenal. He didn't deal well with rejection, Upper Gotham Bay was damp, and she wasn't going to enjoy her impending demise.

"Of course not. That's only natural…sir. Disappointment. Bad. I—I know I'd hate to disappoint you."

He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the vat of femur-ridden wine.

"I read a very inspirational magnet once," he said conversationally. "Do you know what it said?"

"Jesus is coming. Look busy," she guessed. The Joker chuckled.

"Close, but no cigar!" His face dropped into a mask of seriousness. "'I tried to drown my sorrows, but the little suckers learned to swim.' Are you a good swimmer, Techie?"

"Um…" She eyed the wine cautiously as he continued to press her inexorably toward it. "I've tried the drowning thing. It doesn't really work for me. Especially not in that. I mean, how am I supposed to hold my hand up and count down how much longer I can go without air? That's tiny. I'd need an ocean, or at least a lake. Maybe a swimming pool. Don't you agree?" She was babbling. She needed a different approach. "Have I mentioned how absolutely _dashing_ you look in a purple suit?"

With his hand on the back of her neck, he pushed her face down toward the surface of the liquid. She braced herself against the edge of the vat.

"And your eyes are so green!" she gasped. "Oh, Laurel to my Hardy. Oh, Abbott to my Costello. Oh…brother."

He stopped.

They stood like that for a few seconds.

Then, "Tell me more," he urged.

A voice spoke up in the back of her mind. She didn't know what Bruce Campbell as Elvis was doing there, or why he would speak the words he did, but she gratefully latched on to the message, and to the accent as well.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate." And then she forgot the words. "Oh…" The accent failed her. "…that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek." It was then that she would have taken the opportunity to give his face a tender little caress, had he not gotten bored and shoved her head into the wine.

DAMN IT! She tried not to panic, she really did, but she hadn't been kidding about not being a big fan of drowning. Before she could register the fact that he'd released her the moment her face was submerged, she was kicking at him wildly. Her foot hit something soft, and she came up sputtering.

"What the _hell_?!" she bellowed, barely noticing that he was doubled over on the ground, clutching his stomach. "What did I _just_ say?! That wasn't even a funny way to die!"

"I was drowning my sorrows," he said, looking wounded. "That's _hilarious_."

"That is _not_ hilarious and _I'm not your sorrows_!"

"Oh." He looked truly disappointed at that. "Then I guess I'll just have to shoot you. But…that's not very funny by itself. Quick! What's a clever line to go out on?"

"How tragic," she blurted. "Lead poisoning."

He cackled and pulled out a gun.

"Good one!"

"Wait, wait—I'm sorry—I can think of something better!"

"Nope. Too late."

She flinched at the sound of the bang, automatically squeezing her eyes shut as if not being able to _see_ the bullet would somehow prevent it from plowing through her face and out the back of her skull, splattering the entire contents of her head across the room behind her and adding a little bit of herself to the Joker's vat of wine.

Oddly enough, that _didn't_ happen. Cautiously, she opened one eye to see the clown pouting and shaking his gun, disappointed by the BANG! flag sticking out of the end.

She laughed. Loudly. _Hysterically_. It was forced, sure, but she put enough energy into it that he surely wouldn't notice the difference.

His glare was particularly chilling. Poor Squishy could have learned a thing or two from him.

"_What_?"

"Bang!" she said cheerfully, and cackled some more. "Bang!"

Angrily, he shoved the flag back into its place in the gun.

"Let's try this again." He pressed it against her forehead. She stopped laughing.

Okay, so he hadn't been sidetracked, and now he was going to make a Tech-kabob. Great. She wasn't getting out of this one under her own power. All she could do was hope for a miracle.

That's right, a miracle.

Something was sure to come along any second.

Any second now.

…

ANY SECOND NOW!

Oh, yes. Right on time, she heard a bang that didn't come from the gun. What perfect timing, as usual. (Yeah. Maybe she should sit down for a long talk with the Powers That Be. Something like, "Less drama, more getting-me-the-hell-out-ofhere." Who knows, maybe the patron god of idiot henchgirls would actually listen to what she had to say.)

"There's something going on upstairs," she said brightly. "Sounds like a fight! I bet it's Batman! Oh, can we kill him? Please? We can do it _together_! Oh, please, oh, please, oh, _please_ can we go kill Batman?" She clasped her hands in front of her and widened her eyes into the most powerful kicked-puppy look she had ever mustered.

A radiant grin spread across his face, he lowered the gun, and for the first time she was wildly grateful that her version of The Eyes looked so unnatural and disturbing. Only someone like the Joker would have been influenced by that.

He actually _handed her the gun_ before turning to run up the stairs. Fantastic. She followed after him.

Upstairs, the place was total chaos. She could see Batman in the middle of a massive cloud of tear gas, fighting off most of the hired help.

Tear gas. So many jokes sprang to mind.

She didn't see the Joker, which was fine with her. She ran for the door.

And straight into Nightwing's arms. She dropped her bang gun and held out her hands.

"Nightwing! Thank God." He tried to get past her to come to Batman's aid. "Hey! Aren't you going to arrest me?"

"Little busy," he said brusquely.

"But—you've got to hide m—I mean, I'm a villain. You have to take me in." Impatiently, he pushed her away. She snatched his elbow and pulled him back. "Fine, just give me the Batcuffs. I'll restrain myself."

"Batgirl and Robin should be here soon. Wait around for them if you really want to go to jail."

"You _suck_," she yelled, and slammed his head against the wall. He crumpled at her feet.

Oops.

Well, by now the Joker knew she wasn't at his side, and she didn't have the excuse that the big bad hero had taken her down. There was only one thing to do.

She eyed the Batmobile parked across the street.

Time to pull an Ash.

Filled with visions of crashing through the wall and delighting the Joker enough to buy her some more time, she completely forgot about the inevitable security systems, and realized only too late that she was actually pulling a Captain.

In a word, ZAP.


End file.
